Name Him

Ok, before you read this poem, you need to know that it is definitely not finished.  I'm still polishing it, but thought some input would be helpful.  The poem is roughly based off of Proverbs 30:1-4.  Actually, it pretty much follows the same idea all the way up to the end (rephrasing slightly to mirror events that happened to Jesus). Almost at the end, my full intention was to quote the Scripture almost exactly.  "What is his name, and who is his son?  Surely you know!"  At this point, I wanted the poem to highlight Jesus, who is the Son of God.  "I know His name!  I know His Son!" type of thing.  It started out pretty good, but it kind of falls apart at the end.  Anyway, for once in my poetic life, I'm actually taking suggestions.  I'm stumped.

Most ignorant am I-- a fool,

No famous bel esprit.

The wisdom clear in other men,

Is clearly sparse in me.

Who am I to know of Him?

And, really, who are you?

Have you gone up before His throne,

Returned when you were through?

Can you encompass every wind

Within your very palm?

Or throw your arms out and embrace

The waters; make them calm?

Can you create ex nihilo

The width and breadth of earth?

Who is he who equals GOD?

Who dares to swell his worth?

What is his name?  Who is his son?

Come, tell me if you know!

Behold our God!  Behold His Son!

Be awed and bow down low.

Is THIS What You Want?

"May I cover my eyes, Lord?" the minister cried,

"I must be confessing,

My view is distressing.

I'd rather that my eyes were dried."

"May I cover my ears, Lord?" the counselor pled,

"The wailing and crying,

Is stressful, and trying.

I'd rather have silence instead."

"May I cover my mouth, Lord?" the preacher implored,

"The message rings hollow,

And no one will follow.

I'm tired of being ignored."

So be it, you foolish, young children of stone.

Your eyesight be blinded,

Your ears be of lead,

And, lest you be minded,

Your words be unsaid.

Your limbs all be fettered,

Your heart quickly rust,

And, lest you be bettered,

Your soul turn to dust.

And when you have found

All your miseries drowned,

You hard-headed fools will have sunk, all alone.

Why? It's Just . . .

*Note: This is a story I wrote in 2007, but I wanted to have it on here. So it isn't new at all.

They had gone to a buffet-style restaurant for lunch and, having had their fill of food, found themselves browsing the dessert isle for a sweet finale to their meal. Heather spooned some steaming apple cobbler into a plate, debating whether to use ice cream or frozen yogurt on top. Gregory, having caught sight of Heather's choice, rubbed his stomach exaggeratedly. "Wow, Heather, that looks f***ing delicious! I think I'll have some, too." Heather repressed a look of annoyance and smiled, instead. "It really is. You should try it." While Greg ambled off to get a bowl, Heather took a deep breath. Good ole' Greg. She had been trying to get him to become a Christian, but he hadn't shown any interest. He really was a decent kind of guy . . . he just liked to swear a little too much . . . and smoke . . . and drink . . . and he had something of a bad temper . . . but he was a nice kind of guy. In fact, Greg often came to hang out with Heather and her friends, just as they were today. They would talk, laugh, tell jokes, and he would swear away, completely comfortable with his vocabulary. Funny thing was, no one ever asked him to stop.

Heather finished laying the soft-serve ice cream on her dessert, turning just in time to see Greg walking back. He had a bowl in his hand and had his head turned sideways to look at the plates of Oreo cake. A worker holding an armful of fruits hurried in front of him, causing him to stumble and nearly spill the contents of his bowl. He turned an enraged face on the embarrassed girl and yelled, "Jesus f***ing Christ! What is wrong with you?!" As she shrank away, Heather stepped in quickly. "You're ok, honey," she said, "He's just a cranky man. Don't mind him." She smiled soothingly and the employee rushed away.

As Heather and Greg walked back to the table, she looked at him earnestly. "Greg, can I ask you a favor?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Could you not say the f-word along with Jesus? I can take other swearing, but that, what I just asked you . . . well, it really bothers me." The arrived at their table where three other people were so engaged in a conversation that they didn't even look up.

Greg looked highly amused as he replied, "I can do that."

"Thank-you."

"Why does it bother you?"

Heather gazed at her dessert meditatively. "It's just that when you say something like that, you're associating God with some kind of foul-mouthed orgy." She moved her gaze to Greg's face. "And that isn't what God is at all."

"But why does it bother you? It's just a word."

Heather sighed as she returned her gaze to her dessert. Abruptly, she reached out and knocked Greg's ice cream off the table. His mouth fell open and he threw his hands out to his sides. "What was that about?!" Heather picked the bowl up off the ground and scooped the contents back into it. She handed it back to Greg.

"There you go."

Greg stared at her. "It fell on the ground. I'm not going to eat it."

"Why does it bother you? It's just dirt." And Heather walked away to get a mop.

El Asunto

Este es el asunto:
Tengo el corazón envuelto en capas.
Y me pregunto:
¿Qué irá a pasar si lo destapas?

Cuando, al mirar, encuentras fallas
¿Te asombrará el mal que hallas?
O, ¿parecerá un vil espejo,
Dándote, sombrío, tu reflejo?

Not Enough

Not enough to make the perfect beast,

Held, compelled, by puppet strings above.

For not until his will could be released

Could ever there, in truth, exist . . . a love.

Thus, unshackled, free to choose, he rose.

“Not enough,” said he.

And so it goes . . .

Not enough to leave mankind below—

Tragic, willing marionettes of Death,

For, He loved these foolish creatures so,

Fragile things, a brief and dying breath.

And so: to leave or rescue them? He chose.

“Not enough,” said they.

And so it goes . . .

On and on the petty mantra stands.

“Not enough!” we cry, and stamp our feet.

“We never will give in to your demands!”

And, tantrum-led, His gentle face we beat.

We will not rest, ‘till trampled in the sod,

We find the mutilated face . . . of god.